


The Louvre Palace, 12 February 1636

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [17]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Anger, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Correspondence, Embedded Images, Fear, Franco-Spanish War, Gen, Spiritual Devotion, Swearing, War, Wartime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 15:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: The package is thick, greenish-blue serge wrapped around a long, ungainly, heavy bundle of lumps, tightly bound. She sets it and its accompanying letter down on her writing table, then sits in a rush. This can’t be what. No. The air goes from her.*Another installment in the long series of wartime correspondence (and other pieces based around the black box that is the Musketeers during the Spanish War).





	The Louvre Palace, 12 February 1636

**Author's Note:**

> Embedded letter images will have a text version in the end notes.

This time the hand is entirely unfamiliar on the letter, addressed to **Madame ~~B~~ C d’Artagnan** , that accompanies the package she takes possession of with both arms, the messenger shrugging. It is thick, greenish-blue serge wrapped around a long, ungainly, heavy bundle of lumps, tightly bound. She sets both down on her writing table, then sits in a rush. This can’t be what. No. The air goes from her. Surely they’d. No, she’s not so important that Treville himself would. But d’Artagnan is. Athos is.

She takes a hard hold of her breathing, hand to her chest, the skin of her scalp and temples crawling with faintish prickles. It’s far too early in the day for hysterics, she scolds herself. Especially if you don’t know. If.

“God-damn it, woman!” she barks aloud. “Open the fucking letter!”

Another simple seal, but this time, at least, of sealing wax rather than hasty candle wax. And a rich, dark blue, pressed flat by a coin, if she’s any judge. She feels her brows contract, cracks the seal, and pulls the letter open to reveal more of the new, beautiful hand.

 _Oh_. Oh, she’s going to _kill_ him.

She sits quiet for a while, many emotions battling in her. The dominant one, she is almost surprised to find, appears to be anger. She feels she understands a little more of Porthos’s iron-bound, muffling rage, particularly apparent, to all accounts, after the three of them returned empty-handed.

After several drafts, some lines of which literally pierce the paper in vehemence, others all-but scorching it with sarcasm, she decides on simplicity:

She sprinkles it with sand, paces in short steps for a short while, yanks the rarely-used bell pull, shakes off the sand, folds, and addresses the letter, sealing it so emphatically that it sinks virtually all the way through the wax to the paper. By the time the servant arrives, he is surprised to receive the bundle back, thrust rather forcefully into his arms.

“We’re taking this to the garrison of the King’s Musketeers. Now!” she adds on a clap of hands and he finds himself jumping to with rather more alacrity than he would have predicted, or indeed reports to anyone else.

It’s something to do with the expression on her face, and rather more to do with hastily recalled rumours regarding the end met by the barely lamented Comte de Rochefort.

**Author's Note:**

> #### Text of Aramis’s letter to Constance:
> 
> 31 January 1636
> 
> Dear Constance,
> 
> Please forgive me the delay in writing to you, and for presuming on your ~~good nature~~ kindness to send you this.
> 
> Enclosed are my sword, dagger, pauldron, cloak, sash, belt, bandolier, and pistols. I have no further need for them now I’m safely here. I confess I ~~made use of~~ assumed the protection they would afford me en route to Douai, but I must renounce all worldly possessions, and these seem more worldly than all. However, I find I cannot countenance the idea of them going to waste, so I send them, ~~finally,~~ to you to ~~give to~~ bestow as you see fit – either on a promising young recruit, or for your own use. The pistols, in particular, I think, would be a good match for you. If you are keeping up your swordwork, I really cannot recommend highly enough commissioning your own blade, weighted to your use, with a grip to suit your hand and wrist. Ask Fabron for some good exercises to strengthen both them and your shoulder – you should find him sympathetic.
> 
> One of my deepest regrets is that I left before taking the time to bid you a proper farewell. I hope you are well, Constance. You are in my daily prayers along with all the others.
> 
>  ~~Please tell~~ [more heavily crossed out but still legible]
> 
> I remain, as ever, your servant and friend,
> 
> _Aramis_
> 
> P.S. Please apologise to the Quartermaster for not returning my Musketeer effects sooner.
> 
> #### Text of Constance’s letter to Aramis:
> 
> 12 February 1636
> 
> Dear Aramis,
> 
> I will deliver the uniform and apologies to the Quartermaster, but I will keep the weapons in trust until your return.
> 
> I continue well, as do all we care for, for now. We miss you.
> 
> In faith,
> 
> _Constance_


End file.
